Deliver Us From Evil, Page 8

  With a scream muffled only by the covers over her face, Reggie threw herself out of the bed and landed on the floor, her body twisting and turning, grinding itself into the floor as she fought the imaginary flames. Then, coming to her senses, she stopped and lay still for several minutes. She managed to crawl to the bathroom before emptying her stomach in the toilet, and then collapsed on her back on the cool tile floor.

  She lay there breathing hard, waiting for the waves of sickness to fade. Finally she struggled up, stumbled to the window, and looked out onto the grounds of Harrowsfield. As the time to leave on the mission grew closer she usually liked to spend less time at the estate and more at her flat. However, the sexually energetic couple in the room above her had still not satisfied themselves. So she’d come here.

  Yet as she had driven away from London she’d also felt a pang of envy. When’s the last time I had sex? Pretty pathetic when I can’t even remember.

  The rain had passed but the air had not lost its chill. Reggie lifted the window and leaned out, taking deep breaths as the nightmare’s sickening effects faded.

  I’m having night terrors about the bloke and I haven’t even faced him yet. Not good, Reggie. Not good.

  The worst part had been the vision of Whit and Dominic lying dead. Her fears could not be a reason for them to die. She had to get her head straight.

  She dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a frayed hooded sweatshirt with “Oxford” stenciled on the front and slipped out the rear kitchen door. She wasn’t sure if Whit had gone back home or stayed over. She didn’t want him, or anyone, to see her like this. It only took her a few minutes to reach the old cemetery and, even in the dark, mere seconds after that to locate the old tombstone of Laura R. Campion. She stood in front of it, hands in her pockets.

  In a completely irrational way, since she had no family left alive, Reggie had come to think of this dead woman as representing a touchstone for her, to visit in times of stress and uncertainty. It was madness, though, she knew, to try to escape the terror she was feeling by coming to a cemetery in the middle of the night and staring at the grave of a woman dead for over two hundred years who as far as she knew had no connection to her at all.

  “Yet I must be a bit mad,” she said softly, “to do what I do.”

  And yet it was perfectly sane, she told herself, to be afraid of a man like Fedir Kuchin, who burned children alive without a second thought. A man who’d slaughtered thousands of people at a time in horrific ways. It would be madness not to be afraid.

  On the other side of the graveyard was a small private chapel that had fallen into ruin. Its stone-block walls were blackened with age, the roof was partially fallen in, and the thick arched wooden doors had grown frail from termites and rot.

  Reggie passed inside and walked up near the altar. She would come here on occasion to get away from the demands of her “career” and to listen to the birds that had taken up roost in the old joists of the structure. There were no stained glass windows, simply lead ones that had been broken or merely disintegrated. Through these openings the sounds of the surrounding woods poured inside.

  Apparently unlike Fedir Kuchin she had long since given up notions of a higher power guiding them all. She had done so for a simple reason. An all-knowing, all-powerful, benevolent god would never allow the monsters to roam the earth, killing whomever they desired. So for her, their mere presence in the world ruled out any possibility of a benign supreme being. Others would argue that point, and many had with her. She listened patiently to their reasoned statements and then simply disagreed with their conclusions.

  They would have two more days to finalize everything, and then she was leaving for Provence. Before that happened she and the professor would make the exact decision on how to do it. Whether Fedir Kuchin lived or died would depend on their making the right decision.

  Finally, realizing all that was riding on this, and despite her own personal misgivings, Reggie knelt down at the altar, put her hands together, and started to pray, that good would defeat evil one more time.

  She figured it couldn’t hurt.

  CHAPTER

  18

  THE VILLA that Evan Waller would be staying at cost over twenty thousand euros per week and he’d leased it for a month, paying in advance, or so the leasing agent had told Shaw. The house was parked next to the cliffs of Gordes and rose five levels high, reachable inside only by a single spiral limestone staircase. The place had six bedrooms and a saltwater pool in the rear grounds where there was also an al fresco dining area under a wooden pergola, along with an outdoor kitchen and propane grill. The villa’s owner had recently renovated it, and all the appliances, including the Wolf gas stovetop in the spacious kitchen, were new.

  Shaw knew all of this because he was meeting with the leasing agent at her office in Gordes in the guise of being a potential renter for next year. The agent was polite and informative.

  “Don’t take too much time,” she’d warned him in efficient French. She was a Brit transplant but her French was very good. “Just yesterday there was another person here who wants to lease for next year too.”

  “Really,” said Shaw. “Who might that be?”

  The woman arched her eyebrows. “That is confidential. But she is young, American, and quite lovely. And obviously quite well-to-do. These villas are the best in the area and beyond the purse of most. The same builder did the renovation on the villa next door. They’re not exactly alike inside, but there are many similarities, including the limestone spiral stairs connecting all floors.”

  So much for confidences, thought Shaw. “But if the place is leased now as you said, where’s the tenant? The villa is empty.”

  The woman appeared uncertain. “It’s true he’s leased it for the month. Paid in advance.”

  “So it is a man, then?” Shaw said.

  She looked upset with herself. “Yes, but his name is confidential.”

  “Of course.”

  “Anyway, he’s not here yet. It was quite unusual, actually. I mean, to pay thousands of euros for something you’re not even using? Well, it’s not for me to say, I suppose. Rich people are peculiar that way, aren’t they? But you yourself must be rich, if you’re looking at renting such a villa.”

  “I’ve done well in life,” Shaw said modestly. “And we can speak in English if you prefer, though your French is far better than mine.”

  She looked both pleased and relieved by this. Her demeanor and tone instantly changed, and her British accent rang loud and clear. “Well, that’s sweet of you to say. I’ve been doing these lessons for a month to get that gurgling thing going in my throat, but I can’t say I’ve quite got the hang of it. These French, though, they speak so beautifully, so brilliantly, don’t they? But it just about wrecks my poor esophagus.”

  “Mine too.”

  “Anyway, since the place is empty I could’ve taken you up for a quick peek, but we don’t want to barge in and find Mr. Waller in his underpants, now do we?” She chuckled.

  “So it’s Mr. Waller?”

  The woman looked chagrined. “Now look what I’ve gone and done. Okay, that’s the man’s name, but don’t bandy it about. Our work is confidential.”

  “Of course. Not a word. Thank you.”

  He left her and walked to the place in Gordes where he was staying, a small hotel that also had a spa. Situated on the precipice of the Vaucluse plateau with the Luberon valley and hills beyond, Gordes could be reached almost faster on foot from the villas below by a series of steps cut into the rock. A car ride was quite circuitous and involved a number of switchbacks. The village of white and gray stone structures clung to the rock sides like bees to a honeycomb. The village itself was twice crowned: by the Catholic church with its soaring bell tower and by a medieval castle that now housed part of the town’s government.

  He called Frank and filled him in. Ever since he’d arrived here Shaw had methodically reconnoitered each building of note in the town. He probably knew Gordes be
tter than many of its longtime residents. He and Amy Crawford were due to meet tomorrow, but Shaw had been in contact with her since he’d landed in Provence.

  There were a number of possibilities in the village for lunch, so he took his time reading menus printed on crisp white paper and tacked onto exterior walls. He selected L’Estaminet Café near the town center and had his meal, supplementing it with a glass of Rhone, which was of course quite popular around these parts. On the other hand, Italian wine was almost impossible to find, Shaw thought with a grin. His smile faded when she walked in. Though the place was teeming with tourists, for some reason he knew this must be the American of whom the real estate agent had spoken; young, lovely, and so well off.

  She was in her late twenties, with streaked blonde hair that he sensed wasn’t her natural color. Her skin was tanned to almond with a few freckles on her shoulders the size and color of coffee beans. She was wearing a sundress with a scalloped front allowing a glimpse of her cleavage; leather sandals covered her long, narrow feet. Shaw could only see her in profile as she was escorted to her seat. But as she put her bag in the chair next to her she momentarily turned his way.

  It seemed that Shaw’s eyes and brain were disturbingly out of sync, as though his mind had expected his pupils to signal something other than what they had just seen. Yet he didn’t know exactly why he had any expectation at all. Her face was not perfect. Her nose was a bit long and thin and a little too sharply angled; the eyes were a tad large for symmetry when aligned against her face, the cheeks somewhat flat. Yet somehow all put together these elements made her far more memorable than if her features had been flawless. Beautiful women, especially in the south of France, were not so rare, but someone who did not fit neatly into a category was often unforgettable.

  Her body was athletic; the shoulders well-developed, her legs long and defined, the calves particularly muscular as though she had walked uphill a great deal in her life. Because of her leanness she looked taller than what he approximated was about five-seven, but she also seemed small to him. Yet since he stood six foot six in his bare feet, just about everyone other than basketball players seemed diminutive to Shaw.

  As he continued to think about it, Shaw realized that what had startled him was that though she was obviously young, she seemed old, not physically, of course.

  She seems far too serious for someone that young.

  Though he’d finished his meal, a curious Shaw chose to stay and have a café and a cup of strawberry sorbet. Once or twice he thought he saw her glance his way, but it might have been his imagination. He finally paid his bill, rose, and left. If he’d turned around, he would have seen definitive proof that she had noticed him, her gaze lingering long after he’d closed the door.

  He walked down the uneven cobblestone streets but kept the front of the restaurant in sight. Twenty minutes later she stepped out the door, looked around, and started down the path that would carry her to the villas below. That included one shortcut, down a short flight of worn stone steps that would eliminate about a minute out of the trip by subtracting a switchback from the route.

  Shaw followed her, wondering where she was staying. He was surprised to see her approach and then unlock the front door to the villa next to where Waller would be staying. And she’d made inquiries about the other villa too. Despite Frank’s finding nothing on the woman, she would still bear watching. Surprises were never good especially if Shaw was on the receiving end of one.

  CHAPTER

  19

  THE NEXT DAY Shaw traveled fifteen kilometers and met up with Amy Crawford near the ruins of an old fort set high on top of a hill, as old forts often were for strategic reasons. Crawford was petite, barely up to Shaw’s chest. But he knew she was proficient in several martial arts, was a marathon runner, and could kill or disable with either her hands or her feet. Yet while her physical prowess was superb, it was her coolness in the field that had attracted Shaw’s attention and caused him to select her for the team.

  They drove separately to the old quarry where the caves at Les Baux were located and took the tour. Shaw had a pinhole camera in his shirt and videotaped everything for later analysis.

  Walking back to their cars, Crawford said, “Good to be working with you again.”

  “Same here.”

  “Based on the floor plan in there, extraction should go smoothly. Guy couldn’t have picked a more convenient place for us to do it.”

  “And he probably knows that too. So he and his guards will be on high alert. We’ll have two seconds of surprise. It’s incredibly rare we have this sort of detailed intel on a target. We have to hit our marks perfectly.”

  “Understood.”

  Shaw motioned for her to get in her car, a two-door Audi. He climbed in the passenger seat. “Give me the extract from A to Z; make sure we’re on the same page.”

  Crawford fingered the steering wheel. “Private tour starts at oh-ten hundred. His past experience shows he’ll travel with a minimum of four and a max of six muscle, holsters and Glocks. They hit the entrance. The tour guide is our plant. He’s got hair-follicle audio feed and a pinhole video on his guide badge that’ll give us their movements in real time. He’ll make sure the flow matches the timetable as close as possible. All attendants have been previously removed from the scene. Five minutes to read the orientation materials on the walls, plus listening to the recorded introductory spot, puts us at oh ten-ten tops. First room goes in five minutes. Second in two. Third in four. That puts our time mark at twenty-one minutes past oh-ten hundred. Fourth room is ground zero. Sixty meters by sixty meters, good cover on front and left sidewalls. Extraction team is already in position. Power is scheduled to be yanked sixty seconds after they hit ground zero. Seven shooters with flex optics and laser-guided dart rifles. Aim points are neck, arm, or thigh in case of body armor. Our guy in the power room commences his five-second countdown as soon as the video feed shows the last muscle in the party cross Room Four threshold. Code word ‘red’ comes over our headsets one second before power is cut. Fire to commence on that one-second mark to prevent any reaction that might foul the shots. You take out main target while I drop the guy on his hip, with the other shooters dropping the man in their prescribed sectors, flowing outward from main target. All muscle and main target down in two seconds.”

  “Exit?”

  “Two passages branch off east and west from that cave. West circles back to the entrance. East passage is two hundred meters long and empties to an emergency exit that takes us to the other side of the quarry. There’s an egress road at that point. Wheels waiting in the form of an ambulance. Gurney is stowed in the east passage. Target loaded on; that’ll take no more than thirty seconds. The same to get him down the passage. Wheels roll as soon as the ambulance doors clunk shut. Private airstrip is forty minutes south of here. Wheels up as soon as the aircraft door closes. Target and extraction team are out of French airspace before his muscle wakes up in a dark cave and wonders what the hell just happened.”

  He nodded appreciatively. “Then on to the next job,” said Shaw.

  “Story of my life too.” She hesitated, glancing at him.

  “What?” he asked, noting her trepidation.

  “Just scuttlebutt. Always wondered if it was true.”

  Shaw looked at her inquiringly. “What?” he said again.

  “Did you really shoot Mr. Wells in the head?”

  “We had a little misunderstanding.”

  She smiled. “I like your style.”

  “Frank’s actually not a bad guy once you get past the two hundred pounds of anger and dysfunction.”

  “Really?”

  “No, not really.”

  CHAPTER

  20

  THE NEXT DAY Shaw watched with interest as the mystery lady did her shopping in Gordes. Men of all ages stared as she walked by in a sunhat and knee-length skirt that the sneaky breeze would occasionally catch and pitch upward around her thighs. Then the men would stare with even
greater focus. While seeming to window shop along the street, Shaw watched as men approached her speaking French, Italian, Greek, and English, at least by his count. They were offering to help her with her shopping, the language, or perhaps assisting her off with her clothes in the privacy of their room. She politely declined all offers. She in fact needed no help. She spoke fluent French and she knew the prices of things. And she could bargain. Shaw had watched her haggle over a blouse, a decorative blue-and-yellow plate, a bottle of wine, and a dozen zucchini flowers presumably to later fry up, until arriving at the prices she wanted.

  That night, he was sitting at an outdoor café in Gordes contemplating what to have for dinner when he was surprised by her walking up to his table.

  “Parlez-vous français?”

  “Oui, je parle français.” But he added, “Mais mon anglais est meilleur.”

  She smiled warmly. “My English is much better than my French too. Do you mind if I join you? I’ve eaten alone the last few times, and while it started out kind of fun, it grows old fast.”

  He indicated for her to take a seat. “Please.”

  She took off her hat and set it on the seat next to her before picking up a menu.

  “What looks good?” she asked, lifting up her Maui Jims though the setting sun was dropping a bucket of glare right at her.

  “Chicken puttanesca, or you can never go wrong with the old steak and pommes frites with salad.”

  “Shall we order wine?”